


Agreements (Or: The Story of Legolas and His Dwarf)

by orphan_account



Series: Negotiations [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Everybody Lives, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Thranduil go to Erebor to negotiate a treaty. Thranduil is a man-child, Legolas ain't got no time for that, and Gimli has a crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agreements (Or: The Story of Legolas and His Dwarf)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel obliged to mention that this fic is courtesy of Lothlorien, who kindly put the idea in my head.

It all started when Thranduil waltzed into Legolas’ quarters, imperiously waving a glass full of some luridly-colored drink. Legolas, who was innocently waxing a new bowstring, braced himself for the incoming storm.

 

“The short king has requested a diplomatic meeting at Erebor,” Thranduil announced, and based on tone alone, Legolas rated him at a Level 5 pout. Liable to throw tantrums, will create and hold grudges for hundreds of years, overall approaching maximum childishness.

 

“A pleasing development, one assumes,” murmured Legolas, ignoring Thranduil’s frown and stamp of his foot.

 

“Hardly! How imperious of him, to _require_ my presence at his silly mountain.”

 

Legolas briefly debated the merits of finally sending that letter to Elrond begging to be adopted, which he had written three hundred years ago and unfortunately thought of often. Thranduil settled next to him with a huff, running fingers through his hair and tossing it back over his shoulder.

 

“Did he send an armed guard to escort you, father?” Legolas asked mildly. “Otherwise I cannot see how he requires it of you.”

 

“Ha! No dwarf alive could incite me to act against my will.”

 

“Then you are hardly _required_. To go would be a polite and graceful gesture, and your presence does not necessitate actually coming to an accord.” Thranduil prided himself on what he called “graceful gestures” and what others called “the wild blunderings of a moose in heat.” It had taken Galadriel forty years to forgive Thranduil the last time he attempted a graceful gesture at her.

 

Thranduil perked up at the idea, back to petting his hair. “It would be very magnanimous of such an established and respected king to appear in the halls of a newly-crowned one,” he said, a crafty look overcoming his face. Legolas was just glad his father remembered how to think with his brain instead of his hair. He could only hope that senility didn’t run in his family and was merely a byproduct of Thranduil’s ridiculous love of odd drinks.

 

By the time they had been in Erebor an hour, Legolas was heartily hoping for a sudden attack of senility of his own. Thranduil was refusing to speak, in full majestic-king mode and only tilting his head in response to anything. Thorin was also apparently struck dumb, and Legolas was left chatting awkwardly with Balin, who was supposed to act only as the scribe for the dwarf delegation.

 

The door burst open and in charged Bilbo, offering an excuse and a longed-for dose of sanity. With the hobbit’s help, the negotiations finally proceeded—at least until Thorin turned to murmur in Bilbo’s ear.

 

Thranduil jumped on the opportunity and turned to Legolas. “You will be finishing this soon, I assume?” he asked testily.

 

Legolas deliberately misunderstood him, frowning in mock-thought before nodding. “Yes, I believe we’ll come to an adequate initial settlement within a few hours.”

 

“That is not what I meant,” ground out Thranduil, somehow managing to flounce in place. “Make up something, tell them the negotiations are displeasing. It is past time we return to the forest.”

 

“Worry not, father, I doubt the trees have walked off without you to mind them. I would not see hundreds starve because you find yourself bored,” snapped Legolas before turning back to the table and ignoring Thranduil’s squeak of outrage.

 

Legolas should’ve known better than to assume Thranduil would cease his objections. Within fifteen minutes, he requested a sorrel salad with raspberry vinaigrette, which was mysteriously produced despite it being a month before raspberry season. Every half an hour he requested a new, more outrageous dish. Legolas noted that he was not the only one attempting to control a recalcitrant king—there was a certain amount of woefully un-surreptitious wiggling between Bilbo and Thorin until the hobbit assaulted Thorin thoroughly enough to stop his fussing.

 

That served as his inspiration for the next time Thranduil opened his mouth. His expression of polite attention not so much as twitching, Legolas painfully twisted the hair at the nape of Thranduil’s neck while stomping on his instep. Thranduil’s mouth snapped shut, eyebrows flying up in pained astonishment, and he settled with a nearly invisible pout.

 

Finally, Bilbo and Legolas were able to settle on a first draft, and the group gratefully retired to the feasting hall. Legolas attempted to slip away from his father, but Thranduil was worse than a burr in wool, and tailed determinedly after his son. They settled in at the head table with Bilbo and Thorin, Legolas quietly fuming.

 

He mentally drifted until Bilbo began speaking, and came back to himself with a start. Two more dwarves had joined their table, both violently red-haired, and Bilbo introduced them as “Gloín and his son, Gímli.”

 

Legolas felt himself staring at Gímli, fascination overcoming his manners. The dwarf looked young, perhaps only just an adult, and had an air of youthfulness and pride. They were hardly qualities that Legolas admired, but he found he could not tear his eyes away.

 

Gímli caught his eye, and nearly defiantly returned his gaze, blushing fiercely. A wave of interest swamped Legolas—what a saucy little thing!

 

“I see an elf, with a gaze too forward for his kind,” Gímli observed, crossing his arms and hunching as if he expected blows for his words.

 

“I see a dwarf with an attitude nearly as big as his boots,” Legolas shot back, smiling slightly. “But perhaps he has earned such an attitude.” Gímli straightened at that, a gleam entering his eyes.

 

“Last week I slew a boar that had been terrorizing the farms of Dale,” the dwarf boasted. “A beast so large that it could break your skinny arms without a thought. Even the men had feared it. But no dwarf shies from such a challenge!”

 

“Indeed?” said Legolas, intrigued despite himself. Boar hunting was dangerous at the best of times—if Gímli’s claim was true, it was indeed quite a feat. “I can only wonder what kind of weapon would fell such a monster.”

 

“Good dwarf-made steel, and nothing but!” exclaimed Gímli. “My father’s axe split its skull as cleanly as any log. The men’s dogs chased it to us in a fury, and it charged me. I stood my ground to the last moment, and then stepped aside and gave it a mighty blow!” Gímli swung his arms, mimicking the death blow, and smirked at Legolas. “But does the elf hunt? Or does he cower in his castle, eating nothing but trees?”

 

“The forest hides many beasts worse than boars,” Legolas returned merrily. “I myself have killed two dozen of the great spiders that plague our lands. Their bodies are larger than mine, and their legs nearly twice as long as I am tall. They scuttle about on silent feet, and their venom will put you into a deep, helpless sleep.” Legolas launched into his best spider-hunting story, the trials of the day finally falling away from him as he exchanged tales with Gímli.

 

They were still deep in conversation when the two delegations moved to a smaller hall made for mingling. Legolas guided Gímli over to a darker corner, jealously hoarding the dwarf to himself. He dimly registered Thranduil and Gloín both trying to encroach on their conversation before being distracted by a set of younger dwarves—Firo? Kiro? something of the sort.

 

After an in-depth discussion of the merits of arrow head shapes and the complications of producing them, Legolas found himself hunched protectively over Gímli, who stood well within his personal space. They shared a glance—a spark, a thrill—before Gímli stepped back and cleared his throat.

 

“Perhaps we shall retire outside, elf,” he said gruffly, the tips of his ears clearly reddening. “It is a fine night, and your kind loves the feel of starlight on your skin.”

 

“That we do,” replied Legolas, taken off-guard by the dwarf’s knowledge. “I would find a sojourn outside quite pleasing.”

 

Gímli made an abortive movement towards Legolas, fist clenching before turning and hurrying towards the door. Legolas trailed after him, suddenly far more interested in where the night may lead. Gímli hurried through the halls of Erebor, curtly greeting the many dwarves they passed in the halls, who raised their eyebrows at his elven companion but restrained from commenting.

 

They reached a door and Gímli burst through it, Legolas close on his heels. At the first touch of starlight on his face and wind on his body, Legolas relaxed, reveling in the sense of space about him. Gímli stared frankly at his reaction, once again reddening, before gesturing at a low bench and settling himself on it. Legolas perched next to him, crossing his legs underneath his body so that he could face Gímli, resting his hands on his knees.

 

He frankly studied Gímli’s face, soaking in the details as the dwarf appeared to struggle with an unexpected bout of self-consciousness. Finally, Gímli huffed, squaring his shoulders, and turned to Legolas.

 

“I do not intend to offer insult, Legolas, but I have a thing that must be said,” Gímli said bravely, and Legolas felt a rush at the sound of his name with the edge of a dwarven accent. “I find you—intriguing. But if my interest is not returned, I will not push my suit.”

 

Legolas leaned forward, drawn to Gímli like a moth to the flicker of flame. “By all means, do not withdraw your suit. Your interest is…thoroughly returned.” Legolas was struck with a thought, and he unfolded his legs, stretching one behind Gímli on the bench and dangling the other to the ground. He held out a hand, invitingly, and Gímli took it, edging into the space made for him. He felt like a furnace against Legolas’ chest, and the elf wrapped an arm around those broad shoulders, reveling in the sensation of closeness.

 

“My father would drop dead of shock should he see me now,” Gímli said, sounding wondering and a bit annoyed. Legolas laughed and curled closer around his companion until he felt relaxation run through limbs.

 

“My father would stamp his feet like a child, and throw himself upon the ground,” Legolas confided. “He is terribly embarrassing. The Lord Elrond says he often wishes to bend Thranduil over his knee, and spank him like the brat that he is.” Legolas paused. “But perhaps there are other reasons for that, as well.”

 

There was a slightly shocked silence between them, and then Gímli burst into giant guffaws of laughter,  body shaking with his mirth. Legolas joined in, the sounds of their glee echoing into the night. Gímli tucked his head under Legolas’ chin, and they murmured of family and childhood, the night gathering both under its wing.

 

“So many dwarves wear braids in their hair,” Legolas said, stroking a hand through said hair. “And yet you wear none. Is it a ritual, or for status? Or personal choice?”

 

“Some of all,” admitted Gímli. “Some braids show—attachment, as families or partners. Some are traditional for a bloodline. Some are just for beauty, although even they usually have deeper meaning.”

 

“Perhaps I would make a fetching specimen to a dwarf, with braids in my hair,” teased Legolas, and immediately regretted it as Gímli stilled beneath him. The dwarf pulled back, and Legolas feared the worst, but he was greeted with a pleasantly wide-eyed and flustered face.

 

“Perhaps you already do,” Gímli returned, raising his hand to alight, trembling, on Legolas’ hair. “But it would be my honor to braid your hair.” Legolas swallowed audibly, a lump suddenly in his throat, and nodded.

 

Gímli gently grasped Legolas’ chin, turning the elf’s face this way and that. Satisfied, he angled it to reach the clasp in the back, gently removing it and placing it into the elf’s hands. He gathered a small amount of hair just above an ear, efficiently braiding close to the skull. His hands brushed the point of the ear and Legolas shuddered, closing his eyes and exhaling. Gímli chuckled breathily, curving the braid down behind the ear before letting it hang loose, completing the braid down the length of his hair. He turned Legolas’ head again, replicating the braid, before taking back the hair clip and pinning the rest back up again.

 

Legolas turned his head back front, hands reaching up to touch the braids. A smile darted across his face, and he placed his hands on Gímli’s shoulders, bending his head until foreheads touched.

 

“What a fine gift you have given me,” he whispered, slightly overcome. They sat, sharing breaths, until Legolas slid a hand around to the back of Gímli’s neck.  The dwarf tipped his face back, Legolas greedily meeting his lips, reveling in the unfamiliar scratch of beard. Gímli’s hands gripped at Legolas’ hips, pressing nearly to the point of pain and sure to leave bruises.

 

They finally parted, both panting, and Legolas gathered Gímli close to his chest, tipping his head back to revel in the cool wash of starlight over his face. They would have to go inside, soon—but he would happily hoard every second ‘til then to themselves, a memory encased in jewel-bright emotion.

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon Thranduil is obviously highly influenced by Dwarf Racist Party Dad Thranduil (gratefully borrowed from gingerhaze), who is the best Thranduil. I also tripped headfirst into the hair-braiding trope and I am not ashamed. 
> 
> ETA: My hair-braiding trip was inspired by the fact that (movie!canon) Legolas is one of a very few elves shown with braids in his hair. In addition, they're what I consider pretty dwarfly braids. Ergo, a dwarf put them there. Ergo...well, you know.


End file.
